


A Study in Tweed

by somewhereelse



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereelse/pseuds/somewhereelse
Summary: AU. Rival professors Smoak and Queen at the year’s first department meeting.
Relationships: Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak
Comments: 17
Kudos: 150





	A Study in Tweed

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO.
> 
> I don’t know what this is other than the first thing I’ve managed to write from start to (kinda) end in months. Everyone (maybe not Diggle) is terribly out of character. Oliver has later S7 wardrobe and later S5 hair. Not sure what subject these three could possibly have in common as professors. My brain may write more on this one day, don’t hold your breath. Hart of Dixie AU is still a thing. WHAT AN ELECTION/RESULT. I think that covers it.

“He’s the one who opposed her hiring.”

Felicity overhears the rumor because her colleagues are trying to whisper but they’re clearly not trying all that hard. She whips around to follow their gaze, can practically feel them cringing behind her, then promptly stomps off in that direction.

The man in question is wearing a tweed jacket that she almost sneers at because it is _such_ a cliché and obviously just some sort of costume to him. The elbow patches alone make her want to scream. 

Professor Oliver Queen, son of the department’s founder Emeritus Dean Robert Queen, almost looks startled by her approach. Startled for him meaning he raises a solitary eyebrow. It probably has something to do with the fury in her eyes in the few minutes leading up to a normal staff meeting that has him double-taking.

“Miss Smoak,” Oliver nods, a greeting and a dismissal in one.

“ _Professor_ Smoak,” she stresses because, _fuck him_ , she deserves the title and the respect. She didn’t get voted the department’s “Most Popular Professor” last year in her _first-ever_ year as an adjunct to put up with this crap. “No thanks to you.”

His eyes flick away from hers, over her shoulder, presumably to the spectators. “Word travels fast,” he murmurs in this quiet, “dignified” comment as he adjusts his cuffs, “No offense. You’re just... young. And inexperienced obviously.”

Felicity wasn’t exactly expecting an apology but she was expecting something closer to an attempt to make nice. Not for him to double down on the irrelevant commentary. “And how much teaching experience did you have before your father fast-tracked you for tenure?”

A low murmur rumbles through the room. Oliver’s eyes cut up again, and the pure murder in them shuts everyone up immediately. His cheeks are flushed when he looks back down to her, and Felicity does mean down because he’s straightened to his full height and _hoo boy_.

“You’re barely old enough to babysit these students, much less teach them.”

“And they’re barely old enough for you to sleep with, but rumor has it, that hasn’t stopped you.”

“That was a smear campaign, and everyone knows it!”

Felicity has a retort on the tip of her tongue, something about how everyone must not have gotten the memo because Thea is still walking around campus like a pariah, but she’s interrupted by a loud banging noise. Both of them—and the rest of the room—whirl around to the head of the table.

Department Head John Diggle sits there with an impassive expression and a sword, of all things, in one hand. Felicity goggles at it before her eyes track up to the fireplace mantle and the coat of arms that’s down one sword. Diggle must have used the hilt—

As if reading her mind, he drops the hilt to the tabletop twice more, and even though they’re all watching, everyone winces slightly at the sound. She wouldn’t be surprised to find a dent in the wood later. 

“I don’t have a gavel,” Diggle shrugs. On anyone else, the gesture would come across as sheepish, but his shoulders are too broad to ever communicate that. “Please be seated. We have a lot to cover.”

Everyone scrambles to obey. Felicity deliberately crosses half the room to avoid being anywhere near Oliver Queen, but it only works to put them in seats directly opposite each other.

She scowls.

He glares.

Diggle bangs the sword hilt again.

* * *

Felicity squints at the wood grain of the table as her colleagues slowly pack up and reluctantly leave. She can’t blame them, she’d want to stick around for the drama, too. As it is, Diggle deliberately walks the last straggler out, leaving her alone with the one other person he asked to stay after the meeting. Somehow, she feels like a kid called to the principal’s office.

“I can’t believe you brought up my dad.”

Her head whips up at the hissed accusation. She narrows her eyes at the new target, an actual sneer twisting Oliver’s expression, and refuses to be distracted by his biceps practically bulging out of that stupid tweed jacket as he crosses his arms.

“It’s the obvious low blow. I had to go there!” she defends hotly. Because, well, who gets into a good old-fashioned, mud-slinging, insult war with Oliver Queen and doesn’t bring up his daddy issues?

“And the girl?” Another sneer, this one laced with hurt.

“Everyone knows Adrian Chase bribed her,” she tries to wave away, but it’s harder to dismiss until she remembers, “I was your alibi! And I can’t believe you agreed with Bertinelli calling me a glorified babysitter!”

It’s Oliver’s turn to go red with what might be shame. “Only to his face!”

“That’s when it matters,” Felicity grumbles because the last thing that jackass needs is to feel even more empowered to control the women in the department. “You know he’s still pissed Helena left because he pushed out Michael.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “What was I supposed to do? If I defended you, he’d assume we’re sleeping together.”

“That’s ridiculous. What basis would he have to think we’re sleeping together? Why would _anyone_ think there’s something going on between us?” she retorts, complete with her own eye roll.

“ _N_ _ot_ on the table.”

The sharp rebuke brings them both up short. Just realizing she was leaning forward, she falls back into her seat. On the other side of the table, Oliver does the same with a more controlled descent. Okay, yeah, she could see how this might look like they were about to—

“Don’t worry. We’re not about to have sex on the conference table,” Oliver finishes her thought in a complete deadpan as she flushes red.

“Thank the Lo— Actually if you did that, not even God could save you from my wrath,” Diggle threatens credibly. They both swallow down any smart reply and nod in acknowledgement. “Now I don’t know what has gotten into you two, but sort it out. Classes start next week, and I’ve got plenty of actual adolescents to handhold through the year.”

Felicity mutters her agreement, and Oliver salutes him in a way that almost has Diggle reaching for the sword again. “Can’t believe I hired a pain in the ass to go with the one I inherited,” is his last comment (this week) before he storms out.

“Maybe”—Oliver smirks, and she hates it immediately—“Bertinelli thinks we’re sleeping together because of all the unresolved sexual tension.”

“There is no _unresolved_ sexual tension,” Felicity denies. She really hates that smirk so much. Does absolutely nothing for her, especially when he’s sitting there wrapped in tweed and surrounded by bookcases and oak-paneled walls. “How can there be? We resolved it yesterday.”

Oliver’s dumb smirk slips to something closer to a genuine smile. She hates this one less. “Yeah, and the week before,” he sighs, sounding almost wistful. “Why do you think I wore this jacket?”

Felicity glares and grumbles, “I hate that jacket. The only time I like that jacket is when I’m taking it off you.”

“Again, why do you think I wore this jacket?”

Her glare doesn’t slip. Not even as she pushes back her chair and rises to her feet and mumbles, “Let’s go then. Or Diggle will kill us for having sex on the conference table.”


End file.
